by Nick Oldham
Henry had abandoned Rik and Donaldson in the ground floor dining room. He walked back to them with a shrug and sat down.
‘He’s busy, but I’ve left a message.’
Henry had his back to the door, so he was facing out with a view of the headquarters social club, known colloquially as ‘The Grovellers’ Arms’. The eyes of the two men with him looked back past him as FB entered the room, waving a piece of paper in his hand with irritation.
‘Brief me. You’ve got five minutes, then I’m going back to that meeting where, I’m sure, my brain’s going to implode.’
FB took the spare seat at the table, big, rotund, mustachioed, like Buddha’s fifth cousin twice removed but much more wrinkly. He and Henry had known each other many years and their relationship was complex. FB had used Henry on many an occasion, mainly for his own ends, and there was no love lost between them. However, when things went to the wire FB had actually backed up Henry, which is what Henry was hoping for this time. But he wasn’t banking on it.
Henry explained everything succinctly, as instructed. FB hated superfluous detail. The chief looked suspiciously at Donaldson, then back to Henry.
‘You need to speak to the lad in custody because you have information linking him to a murder victim. Fair enough, and it should be possible to achieve. But why the Yank?’ He thumbed at Donaldson.
‘He could do with speaking to the lad, too,’ Henry said, making FB snort derisively.
‘But not about the murder of a girl in Lancashire?’ FB said.
‘No.’
‘I’d guess it would be about Jamil Akram,’ FB said. He looked at Donaldson again. ‘They’re freezing you out, aren’t they?’
Donaldson nodded. ‘I don’t think the security services have grasped the implications of Akram turning up on the scene. And now with Mark Carter’s identification, we have him clearly linked to Sadiq and Rahman, if he wasn’t before.’
FB snorted again. ‘Think you’re wrong there, pal. They know it all and that’s why they want to be the ones trying to squeeze every last drop of information out of that poor misguided youth.’
Donaldson’s face fell. It was something he had suspected, but having it confirmed by a third party was like being hit by a truck.
Then Henry said, ‘They want Akram for themselves.’
Donaldson’s body slumped.
‘Yep,’ FB sighed. ‘You’ll not get a look in.’
‘I know more about Akram than any of them,’ Donaldson whined weakly. ‘I’ve been after him for over ten years. Sadiq might know something extra that I can slot into the other pieces of my jigsaw. Something that will lead to his front door.’
‘They won’t let you talk to him. You might not get to him either,’ FB said to Henry.
Henry’s voice was indignant. ‘I have every right.’ He knew instantly he sounded like a probationer constable who only saw the world in black and white, right and wrong, not a grizzled old-timer who knew the world was as murky and grey as 1950s’ London smog. ‘Sorry,’ he said, as all eyes turned to him.
FB went into deep thought, eyes a squint. ‘How quickly can you get the DNA profiles done on the outstanding sperm samples?’ he asked Henry.
‘I managed to get Mark Carter’s fast-tracked through a personal contact. I doubt I can repeat that.’
‘Try,’ FB said. Then his attention turned to Donaldson. FB’s mind was also grinding hard on the subject. FB had been a career detective, rising up through the ranks in plain clothes, so he thought like one still. ‘It would be helpful if the DNA profile from the blood on the plane could be fast-tracked, too, don’t you think? I know…’ he said, before Donaldson had the chance to point out that this was completely out of his hands because the sample had actually been taken by a Merseyside CSI and had been submitted through that force’s channels. He leaned forwards. ‘Can I just give you my line of thinking? We need power to our elbows if we’re to have any chance of getting to interview Sadiq. First off, all the DNA samples taken from her body have to be profiled and ready for comparison. Four profiles, four comparisons. Mark Carter’s is done, that leaves three — so what if the three belong to Sadiq, Rahman and Akram? What if all three of those guys had sex with her?’
Henry, Rik and Donaldson exchanged excited glances.
‘The first thing we need to do is get Sadiq’s and Rahman’s DNA analysed.’
‘We still have Rahman’s body in the mortuary,’ Henry said. ‘And his DNA would have been taken as a matter of course.’
‘But he’s dead — and you can’t speak to him,’ FB said. ‘But, yes, his DNA needs cross-checking with the samples. Then, if we get Sadiq’s DNA analysed… if that comes back positive, then there’s no way we should have any problems in getting to see Sadiq. And-’
Donaldson intercut, ‘If Akram’s DNA matches one of the samples from Natalie’s body, then we’re whoopin’.’
‘That’s only if these things match up… but if they do, then perhaps you can shoehorn yourself into Henry’s slipstream.’
‘I also think we need to have another look at Sadiq’s flat,’ Henry said. ‘If Natalie was seeing the two lads as Mark suggests, it might be possible to find something in the property that relates to her. That’ll help our cause, too.’
‘Mm,’ FB said dubiously. ‘You might be too late on that score. That place is being gutted, packed and then sent off for detailed examination by MI5 and CT as we speak. You’ll need to move quickly, otherwise it’ll all go, then you’ll have no chance.’
‘Shit,’ Henry said.
‘Anything else I can solve for you?’ FB asked. ‘I need to get back to my budget meeting. We’re just discussing FMIT, actually. Need to cut that budget by thirty percent.’
‘What budget would that be?’ Henry said. The Force Major Investigation Team operated on a minuscule budget, the money to run long inquiries coming from other sources as necessary, not from the FMIT pot.
‘We’re wondering whether four superintendents isn’t a bit OTT,’ FB said. ‘Two could probably be enough, so we could easily lose two of you… and as two of you could retire if pushed… just a thought.’
Henry’s guts churned. Maybe quitting the job wouldn’t be down to him after all.
‘Anyway,’ he muttered, ‘thanks for your input, sir. Very valuable.’
‘Happy to help. Once a jack and all that. Actually, I’m happy to help anyone, even the security services, but I was, and still am, miffed by the fact that they seemed willing to put my officers into danger without briefing them properly.’ His eyes turned to Donaldson. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘Yes sir,’ Donaldson said.
FB nodded then revolved away towards the door.
There was silence at the table.
Then Henry said, ‘As it appears I have nothing to lose, I’m going to hijack any evidence from that flat and get a tame scientist to look for any traces of Natalie.’
Flynn had fished all the time that Boone had been away. Mainly from the beaches south of Banjul, on safari from early each morning to evening, using Boone’s beat up Land Cruiser for transport. It had been a wonderful time. Being alone throughout the days was quite therapeutic.
After the fishing he returned to Faye2 and following a long shower, shave and cold beer, made his way to Boone’s houseboat to be cooked for by Michelle. It was worth watching her glide about the place in her loose flowing African dresses; sometimes the breeze blowing the fine fabric taut against her breasts or between her legs made it obvious that she wore nothing of note underneath and had shaved everything. She seemed oblivious to Flynn’s sneaky peeks, but as each evening progressed and she drank a little wine, inhaled good quality weed, she became more flirty with him.
But that was as far as it went. From their conversations — deep and meaningful — Michelle seemed to have an almost spiritual insight into Flynn’s soul, but not so much as to make him feel uncomfortable. It was obvious she was completely sold on Boone, and Flynn had no wish to spoil that. He w
as slightly envious, though, because he, Flynn, had no one. An ex-wife, a son he hardly ever saw and a woman he had loved who was now dead. That was his emotional footprint. He was seeing someone in Gran Canaria, but it was a relationship based on animal lust and he knew it was going nowhere. In the years following his divorce and his exit from the cops, he thought he would never want anyone to need him ever again, and vice versa. But as he aged — he was only a few years short of fifty now — he knew he wanted to spend his life with someone else, but that person eluded him.
Michelle had been reassuring on that point.
‘Seek and you will never find. Just rest, relax, and the world will come to you,’ she predicted over beer and cannabis. ‘You are a good man, Steve Flynn. I can feel it here.’ She placed a hand on to her groin. Flynn gulped. Then she removed it and put her palm on to her chest. ‘And here.’
Flynn calmed down, but his hand was dithering slightly as he drew his beer to his lips and sipped.
They had eaten one of Michelle’s wonderful chicken dishes, hot, spicy, aromatic, when the short wave radio in the galley squawked and Flynn heard Boone’s voice calling.
Michelle dashed down to answer it whilst Flynn sat back in the comfortable wicker chair and let his food settle. He did not take heed of the conversation going on below deck and soon Michelle came back up, beaming happily. ‘Boone is less than an hour away.’
Flynn raised his beer. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ At that moment the evening breeze moulded Michelle’s dress against her body, leaving nothing to Flynn’s imagination. In his mind he said, ‘And I’ll drink to that, too.’
‘I’ll go and greet him.’ Flynn rose from the second game of chess he and Michelle had played in the intervening hour, knowing he was beaten soundly again.
‘OK. I’ll warm him up some food.’
Flynn stepped off the houseboat, and sauntered down the pathway that clung to the riverbank which led to the next creek where Faye2 was moored, and where Boone was easing Shell into her mooring alongside Flynn’s boat. Flynn would have hurried along and assisted Boone to tie up, but the sight of the big old black Mercedes already parked on the jetty, plus the two big black matching men leaning on the vehicle, arms folded as they watched Boone manoeuvre the boat expertly into position, made Flynn pull up sharp. He was sure he hadn’t been seen in the darkness, so he stepped sideways out of sight behind a couple of empty oil barrels stacked on one another.
One of the men caught Boone’s mooring rope as he tossed it across the gap. Moments later Shell was secure and Boone played out the gangplank across to the quayside.
A man got out of the back of the Mercedes and dashed across on to the boat and had a quick conversation with Boone, who then took him inside the cabin. Flynn ducked low, peering around the barrels at the scenario some fifty metres in front of him, which was illuminated by a couple of lamp posts that cast a white, eerie glow on the tableau.
Flynn saw that one of the men lounging against the car had a machine pistol held at an angle across his chest. The wry look on Flynn’s face said it all. What the hell had Boone got himself involved in now? Before he could answer, Boone reappeared on deck. Behind him was the man from the Mercedes supporting another man with a blanket over his shoulders. This was obviously the cargo that Boone had been to collect from God knew where. The man was apparently injured in some way and had to be propped up as he was led across the gangplank into the hands of one of the waiting men, before being placed in the back of the car. Flynn concentrated his vision on the man in the blanket and, just before his head ducked into the car, he got a one second look at his face.
A further mouth-to-ear conversation took place between Boone and the man from the car, then the latter slid into the rear of the vehicle and the other bodyguards — because that’s what Flynn pegged the men as being — climbed into the car, which then set off with a spurt of red dust. He kept out of view as the car spun around in a turning circle, then drove towards him along the narrow road that ran parallel to the quay.
It was a big, battered old Merc. Flynn knew there were plenty knocking around Banjul, either driven as taxis or by gangsters. He instinctively read and memorized the number plate, noted an unusual dent in the rear wing and that the back bumper was twisted out at one corner.
Flynn stood up slowly and strolled towards the boat, whistling tunelessly as though nothing had happened. And maybe it hadn’t, but Flynn was an ex-cop and still had a nose that sniffed out badness. And what he’d just witnessed stank rancid and rank.
Boone was reticent about the job. Flynn didn’t press him, it wasn’t his business. The guy was clearly exhausted by the journey and although he was ecstatic to see Michelle, and ravenously ate the meal she’d prepared for him, he was dead beat and crap company. He hauled himself off to bed within an hour of landing, leaving Michelle and Flynn alone on the deck of the houseboat.
They chatted until the early hours. Usual subjects. Love, life, food, religion… sex. At one thirty Flynn dragged himself up, complimented her on the food and her company, bowed like a gentlemen — having had a little too much to drink — kissed the back of her hand and left.
Twenty minutes later he bedded down on Faye2 in the air-conditioned chill of the stateroom and was deep asleep almost instantly, but not before looking forward to the next day’s fishing out on the estuary, his last day in the Gambia.
TWELVE
Boone had promised Flynn a wonderful day of fishing, then a slap-up meal at one of the beach hotels on the coast followed by a drinking session, after which they would crash out in rooms at the hotel. Then, after breakfast the following morning, they would wave bye-bye. Flynn had to get back to Gran Canaria to prepare Faye2 for the summer season and the marlin runs. He needed to get the boat and his crew, Jose, the sour tempered Spaniard, ready for action.
Flynn woke early, and after a cool shower sat in the fighting chair with a breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast, accompanied by a cafetiere of coffee and a tall glass of chilled orange juice.
He was feeling pretty tranquil. After the ructions of the last couple of years he was sanguine about life ahead. The midnight talks with Michelle had been very beneficial for him; her view of the world, the way she saw into his soul, then reached in and gently massaged what she found.
He sat back with his coffee, raising his face to the tropical heat, smiling. But just for a moment, unaccountably, his thoughts revolved around to Henry Christie of all people. This was the guy Flynn had blamed for hounding him out of the police almost six years ago and who had crashed back into his life a couple of years back at the same time Flynn’s sordid past had intruded.
Flynn shook his head to rid his mind’s eye of Christie, his face now scowling, thinking that if he never met Christie again, it would be too freaking soon.
Flynn grunted, collected his breakfast things, rinsed them off, then hopped on to the quay and started the short walk to Boone’s houseboat. He glanced at the deck of Shell and saw Boone hadn’t mopped the deck properly last night. There were some droplets of blood on the white decking, dried and brown now. Definitely blood, Flynn thought, pausing, recalling what he’d witnessed last night. Flynn couldn’t have known that the injury was a wound of some sort, but the blood confirmed it. His face screwed up, thinking about men with guns and the brief glimpse of the injured man’s face as he got into the car. Flynn had seen him clearly, his eyes as sharp as they’d ever been. So who was he?
He walked on and five minutes later he was at the houseboat, once more amazed at how brilliantly it had been refurbished. Nice one, Boone, Flynn thought, and smiled brightly at the figure of Michelle who was on deck, sipping juice and reading a paperback.
She saw him, tipped back her sunhat and placed the book down. Her smile was radiant and Flynn caught his breath, not for the first time, at her beauty. Nice one, Boone, he thought again. Don’t screw this one up.
Michelle hugged him and he could not stop himself from loving each second of the short embrace, feeling every con
tour of her body, even though today she was wearing a cut-off T-shirt that showed a few inches of her midriff, and three-quarter length jeans, not one of her wispy dresses.
As they parted, Flynn said, ‘Where is the old rogue?’
‘Gone into town. He said he wouldn’t be long and for you to wait. The fishing will be great, he told me to say.’ She rolled her eyes.
‘Did he mention what he’d been up to?’
Michelle frowned, not quite understanding the question, so Flynn rephrased it slightly. She said, ‘No, he tells me nothing.’ But she did not seem put out by this. Boone was clearly a man with secrets that she was prepared to tolerate. ‘I need to shower,’ she told Flynn and picked at her T-shirt. ‘You relax, make yourself comfortable — help yourself to a drink if you want.’ She smiled and went below.
Flynn was slightly narked at Boone’s absence, having been anticipating a day heaving in tarpon again, but there was nothing he could do other than chill. He heard a door close below decks — the bedroom, he guessed — and after giving Michelle a few moments to get in the shower, he went below with the intention of getting a drink from the fridge.
He helped himself to chilled mineral water and added some fruity cordial, stood there and took a long draught of it. He glanced around the living area and saw a laptop computer on a small desk tucked in one corner, the screen saver pulsing out exploding stars. Flynn wasn’t particularly drawn to computers but he thought he might take this opportunity to check his e-mails. He was expecting one from his son, who he hoped would be visiting him next month in Puerto Rico. He sat in front of the laptop and tapped the enter key. The screen saver disappeared, but a log-in screen appeared asking for a password.
Flynn cursed, sat back and sighed — but spun quickly in the chair when the bedroom door opened and a very naked Michelle stepped out.
‘Oh — jeez, sorry,’ Flynn gasped, trying to avert his eyes.
Michelle stood at the door, completely unfazed by the encounter. ‘You want access to the computer?’
